Counterpoint for 'Chosen'
by T'eyla Minh
Summary: WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SEASON FINALE! This is a 'missing scene' fic for 'Chosen'. No prizes for guessing which scene. Part Three up. Beware the Angst. Incidentally, read my 'Touched' version first. Seriously. This'll make more sense.
1. Part One

**CHOSEN - COUNTERPOINT**

_**Summary:** Buffy and Spike do some moping, and then Buffy heads down to the basement; this is my version of that missing scene...  
**Rating:** PG at the moment; will probably up to PG-13 as it progresses, for implied result of this first part. It's also Spuffy, angsty, shamefully fluffy, and avoids the Angel issue entirely...  
**Disclaimer:** They are not mine, the original scene belongs to Joss, and some of the stolen dialogue is either his or his team's. I do, however, own the imaginings and Buffy's unnecessary rambling.  
**Setting:** Entirely in "Chosen", during the infamous 'missing scene' between Buffy and Spike; in the same vein as the fic already written for "Touched".  
**Author's Notes:** This came to me entirely at random one morning while I was in Crete, in the semi-lucid aftermath of a vaguely Spuffy-related dream that I no longer remember. All I do know is that it got me thinking about the final few episodes again. I should have done the "End of Days" counterpoint, but there's not so much to work with as "Chosen", and I had to get this out of my brain. Anyway, here's the first part; this and the second part will deal mainly with the 'missing scene' bit of the episode, and the third part will be the finale itself. I'm trying desperately not to let this lead into a (horribly clichéd) sequel idea, because I don't want another "Cradle"-style epic on my hands, but I have a sneaky suspicion it may happen. Someone shoot me if I attempt it, please? Anyway. I shall cease my ramble, and let Buffy ramble instead. Enjoy. :)  
_

**Chosen - Counterpoint**

PART ONE

She knows full well that sitting out here on the back porch won't help anyone. But considering she'll be helping the entire planet tomorrow, she's entitled to some alone time, doing nothing. Even if 'doing nothing' equates to 'thinking _way_ too much'. It's all fallen neatly into place: she has the scythe, she's made the plan, she's got her second front of defence if it all goes wrong, and soon she'll have an army of brand new, shiny Slayers, each ready to meet their calling. She's even got her Champion, and never in her wildest dreams did she envisage it to be him, the platinum-blond avenger currently sleeping in her basement.

_Wow, your thoughts just go full circle, don't they?_ taunts her brain. She ignores the inner voice - it sounds as obnoxious as the First, as matter-of-fact as the BuffyBot, and God, what possessed him to make it that damn cheerful, anyway… oh, who is she kidding? It's right. Her thoughts _do_ go full circle. Considering what's playing on her conscience, though, it's hardly surprising.

This time tomorrow, any or all of them could be dead. Deep down, she knows that winning won't be easy; it'll be a long, hard battle, and there are going to be casualties. She can't protect them all, and nor can her Champion, despite what either of them thinks. There are so many unknowns, so many things she can't avoid, and so, so many Turok-Han, more than she wants to try and guess. It's too late now to even worry about it. And that's why she finds herself heading back indoors and down to the basement, because there's one thing she's been avoiding for far too long…

~*~

_Pretty little thing. Shiny._ Ironic really; it's just how he always thought it'd be, once he got the soul. Pretty, little thing; all shiny; all worthy, and full of light. He didn't anticipate the burning, like getting indigestion (itself only a memory from a lifetime ago), only ten times worse, and there's the scar to prove it. The guilt was nothing new. And now, here's this amulet, meaningless, precious, and to be borne by a Champion.

He doesn't feel very worthy right now. Not even the fact that she chose him over Angel can change it. The world's first uncursed vampire with a soul - as far as he knows, anyway - and he's taking one for the home team, all because she believes in him, more than he believes in himself. He gets the general feeling that she's the only one who does; there's no way in the Hellmouth Angel would give up the amulet willingly, and especially not to him, and he's pretty sure the Scoobies and mini-Slayers would sooner stake him and be done with it. He lost Dawn's trust a long time ago. So, he has the faith of her alone; she's 'the One' - the only one, in fact - and he was right all along.

It's enough. The Slayer's trust is all he needs. The part of him that mocks what he's become, because of her, for her, is buried all too soon. There's no time for self-loathing right now; in a few hours, the trinket'll do its thing, and he'll finally find out what his purpose in life is. Well, it only took a hundred and fifty-odd years. Not bad, considering.

The amulet twinkles in the moonlight, a reflection of a reflection; or maybe, just maybe, that's what his soul looks like, under the surface. Maybe that's the whole point.

~*~

From halfway down the steps, she watches him, and wonders what he's thinking about. The basement is silent, so she listens to the rest of the house; odd, because she was never any good at multi-tasking before now. Most of the gang are too antsy to sleep, with the exception of Anya, but they're trying to keep their minds on anything but the inevitable. The Potentials chatter in the kitchen and the lounge, discussing hair and makeup like normal teenagers; she listens to Andrew tormenting Giles, and the ex-Watcher's plaintive riposte. She swallows the sudden lump she feels in her throat when she realises that they never did sit down and talk about things, nor come to any kind of agreement over the issue she's currently spying on. Neither of them even thought to apologise, but, then again, it's hardly worth worrying about now. 'Forgive and forget' has never seemed more apt.

Not that she'd be able to explain this, anyway. She can't even explain it to herself; she doesn't really know what she's come here to do, what she'll say, if anything. This is the sort of thing one normally asks advice for - but who can she turn to? She's in a house full of couples, people content with their existences (with the exception, perhaps, of a few Potentials), so who'd be willing to sit and listen to a confused Slayer, especially right now?

Well… there is one person. But that only makes it all the more difficult. And for the first time in months, she wishes Tara were still around, not just for Willow's sake, but her own.

_Enough moping, Summers,_ chastises her mind, sounding a lot like the army general she's constantly trying to emulate. _Do what you came here to do…_

She takes another step down; the old stairs creak in complaint, and by the time she's reached the bottom, he's standing up to greet her, ever the gentleman. On the concrete floor, they both stand motionless; the only movement in the room comes from the gentle swinging of the amulet in his hand, casting light patterns at his feet. Above her head, the basement door closes, as Vi decrees that even vampires need their privacy, and the gentle hubbub of the house disappears completely.

It was easy enough to wander down here, looking casual, but now she's at a loss for words. The things she should say have been whittled down to those she _needs_ to say, and it's still too much for the amount of time they have. She needs another lifetime, and she's got the remaining hours of darkness.

"So…" she says, hating her own predictability. "Worked out what it does, yet?"

He looks at the amulet and shrugs. "Nope. But I figure _it_ knows what it does, and that's something."

She feels herself smiling, though it's entirely involuntary. "Kinda pretty, isn't it?" she asks, pointlessly. He lifts it again to examine it, maybe hoping its function will become apparent in a random flash of inspiration.

"Yeah," he says. "You sure you don't want to swap?" She gives him a puzzled look, and he explains, "You get sharp things to play with, and I get to wear the jewellery. Doesn't seem quite right…"

Laughing in spite of herself, she agrees. "I suppose not…"

~*~

He knows as well as she does that this can't go on. It's banal, pointless; the banter seems hollow. While he prefers that she came and saved him from his rambling thoughts, he wishes he could tell why. She's impossible to read, lately; ever since that night they spent, their relationship has been completely indefinable. She gives him more hope than ever, but still backs away when he pushes her too far. He can't find the line he's not supposed to cross, and doubts she knows where it is, either.

In the strange silence that falls between them, he resumes his place on the bed, since there's nothing much else to do and nowhere more logical to go. Backing away is infinitely easier than going forwards, anyway. Examining the amulet ponderously, still - because there seems to be little else to do with it, right now - a thought strikes. "I got a puzzle for you," he says.

"What's that?" she asks. Her nervous stance relaxes slightly, but he can still hear her heartbeat, and it's as erratic as when she came in. That means there's something she wants to tell him, but he knows it'll take a while, so he might as well ramble.

The amulet catches the moonlight. "This thing," he says. "It got me thinking." Looking up at her, cocking his head to the side, he asks, "How's your physics?"

"Sucks," she admits. "I never really got all that electricity stuff. All I know is, the little switch on the wall makes the lights come on, and my hard-earned lack of money makes sure it does it."

Smiling, he drops the amulet on the blankets. "Lucky for you, that wasn't what I meant. Was thinking more about stars."

"Oh…" With a small shrug, she steps forward - appearing outwardly casual - and sits down, cautiously, beside him. "Well… I know a couple of constellations, and that we're a little tiny thing in the corner of the universe. Beyond that it makes my brain hurt."

He nods. "I was thinking about moonlight, really…"

"What about it?"

"Well, it's not technically _moon_light, is it?" he asked, rhetorically. "It's sunlight, reflecting back at us." After her nod, he continues his train of thought. "So how come vampires can go out in it?"

She smiles, amused, and then decrees: "Spike, you _really_ need to find a hobby…"

He returns the smile. "Seriously, though… it makes no sense, does it?"

"I guess not. But if you think about it, it's really like… six degrees of separation from _actual_ sunlight…" And the way she explains it, just like that, it makes all the sense in the world, and doesn't even seem to matter any more. "Where did that come from, anyway?"

He waves a hand to show it's not important; he doesn't want to worry her any more than she probably is already. "Oh, I dunno. Just one of those moments when you realise your own mortality, y'know?"

"Yeah, I've been having a lot of those recently…"

~*~

She pushes herself back to lean against the wall, and examines her feet as they stick out in front of her, no longer touching the floor. She can already tell that this is going to be one of those conversations that constantly changes subject, just so neither of them have to admit anything to the other. And yet, despite that, he's still the only one she can tell things to.

He leans on his knees, hands facing inwards, but turns his head to look at her, awaiting her explanation. "All that stuff you said," she reminds him, "about how I was 'the One'… You were right. I hate it when you're right."

"Thank you," he says, with an amused smile.

"You know what I mean… It's like… I've got this plan, and everything and every_one_ I need to carry it out, but in the end… it's all me. There was never meant to be an army on this side, just a Slayer with a big pointy weapon." She reaches behind him for the amulet on the bed. "And this thing, I guess…" Still holding it, she lets her hands fall to her lap. The heavy sigh that escapes is as defeated as she feels. "I hate that there are so many people involved in this. I hate that… that I can't protect them all, and I hate that I should have to protect _any_one." She looks at him, sincerity in her gaze. "And most of all, I hate that you have to be a part of this…"

Frustrated, she propels herself off the cot again, throwing the amulet onto the blankets in her wake, and starts to pace. He rescues it and puts it to the side; the last thing they need is it getting broken as a result of some Slayer-wrath. "I mean, if it's down to me, it should be _just_ me, right?" she asks, rhetorically, even though she knows he'll have an answer.

Placatingly, he tries to reassure her as best he can. "Your friends are a part of this because they want to be, pet. You can't blame yourself for that."

"Can't I? Maybe I should've kept them out from the beginning." She knows, deep down, that it doesn't make any sense, that if she had, she'd definitely be dead already. She's feeling particularly martyr-esque today, and it's not a good way to be, considering what's ahead. With a shrug, she stops the train of self-deprecating thought where it stands, folding her arms across her chest. "Well, too late now, anyway…"

Of course, he sees through the air of nonchalance, and stares at her with more patience than she'd ever have credited him with before. "Buffy… they're stronger than you think, all of them. The girls'll be even stronger when the time comes. Willow is probably the most powerful witch I've ever met. That Watcher's handy with a sword, and Andrew probably should be, too, by all accounts. And you got Faith; she can kick serious-"

"I get it…" she cuts him off.

After a pause, he continues, "And you've got me. Whatever it is I'm meant to do, when I figure it out, I'll do it."

"Even if you don't come out of it at the other end?"

"I'll make sure I do," he says, more reassuringly than she supposes he feels. "I may not have much to live for, but I quite like this life. And anyway, I'm determined to outlive _Passions_."

At this final comment, she lets out a laugh, and it feels like the first genuine one in a very long time. When it subsides, she can do nothing but stare at him: this vampire, her sworn enemy by right, who has done everything and more for her, and all for nothing. That list of things she wants to say comes back, but the only thing she can force past her lips is a simple phrase. "Thank you…"

~*~

That's the second time in as many days, and the first one doesn't really count, being written down. He tries to conceal his surprise and pride behind the smile he's been wearing since she laughed, and with any luck, he'll get away with it. This girl, who, a lifetime ago, he swore to destroy, stands before him, her posture midway between defensive and desperately needy, and in the pale blue-white of the moonlight he wants nothing more than to sit right here and stare, drink in the moment for everything it's worth. The temptation just to take her in his arms and hold her tight - for both their sakes - is almost overwhelming, but now is not the time. The walls aren't down, not yet. There's more she has to say.

"What for?" he asks.

Her arms uncross; the wall falls, brick by brick. It takes her far too long to reply. "For… for everything. I don't know how I can explain it any other way… This past year… the year before that, when I came back. I didn't appreciate it, any of it. I guess I was just too wrapped up in my own life to realise what you were doing for me." She pauses. "And for this, right now… making me laugh. Being here like always."

He remembers, vaguely, something he admitted in a semi-lucid state, in another basement. It's just as true now. "I don't have anywhere else to go…"

"Lucky for me," she says. "Because I'm still _so_ not ready for you not to be here."

Reminiscence, then, is the order of the evening, but he secretly hopes it won't go any further back than that. There are some things best left in the past. The conversation reaches a stalemate, and in the pause, he realises that this can't go on much longer. They can't spend the entire night like this, avoiding her reasons for being here, and it falls onto him to find out what they are. Probably more defensively than is necessary, he asks, "Buffy, why _did_ you come down here?"

She seems relieved that he brought it up and saved her the bother, as he'd anticipated. "To see you, duh," she says, covering the greater truth with a lighter tone. His questioning expression doesn't falter, however, and she's forced to explain herself better. "Okay… I was just sitting out on the back porch. Buffy's Favourite Place, right? And I was thinking out there, about what I have to do, about how it's all come together, and I realised… I kept expecting you to turn up and sit next to me. Then I figured you probably had a lot of thinking of your own to do."

Apparently realising that she's rambling, she stops for a moment, and tries again. "It sounds really corny, but I couldn't stop thinking about you." He smirks, but she gives him a warning glance, and he lets her carry on. "I guess because you're such a big part of this, everything kept reminding me… Spike…" She examines the floor, nervous. "There's… there's a lot of things I need to tell you. I don't even think there's enough time. That's what I'm here for; that's what my plan was when I opened the basement door. Except now I have no idea how to start."

He refuses to try and guess what she wants to tell him; if he's off the mark, which he inevitably will be, he doesn't think he can cope with the hurt. Instead, he tries to be reassuring. "Well, I'm here 'til the sun rises, pet. Longer'n that, if you need more time."

She offers a watery smile and then stares at her feet. When she lifts her head again, tears are glistening in her eyes. He sits on his hands, forces himself to listen to her. She's visibly fighting an inner battle, but somehow manages to maintain some semblance of control when she speaks again. "God. An _eternity_ wouldn't be long enough…"

~*~

She seems to have shocked him a little; at any rate, he's not replying just yet. It's just like him, of course: now that's she's laid the ground-work, she's got to finish everything, too. She has to tie up all of her meandering thoughts into one neat, little package. If only it was that easy; if only she could present him with a box, labelled "All of Me", topped off with a red ribbon, and have him understand.

He stares up at her like an attentive pupil listening to a lecture, but the only thing he'll learn from this is the truth, if she even gets that far. Time is waning, and she's wasting it.

She takes another deep breath before she continues. "I have this feeling," she explains, "that something might… might go horribly wrong tomorrow. There's always something gets overlooked. We're going to win; I know we are. But there're going to be casualties, maybe even sacrifices. What if neither of us gets through this, huh? What if I end up dead? What if you do?" She sighs; everyone has the same fears, so there's little point regurgitating them now. "I don't want that to happen; I don't want us to lose each other without my saying all of this…" But how can she condense it? Into a sentence? Into two simple phrases that are meaningless out of context, and that she'd need to explain? He deserves so much more than that.

She's been one with the speeches of late; one more won't hurt. He seems to be anticipating one. "Okay. First off: I'm sorry."

He smiles, then, knowingly. "I know you are."

"No, you don't," she says, frustrated. "You have no idea how sorry I am. Not just for last year, although that covers most of it." These are things she's already told him, while he slept. "There's more to it than that. I-"

"Buffy…" he interrupts. Then, the knowing smile becoming warmer, he continues, "I know…"

Her eyebrow raises of its own volition. "You… you heard me, didn't you? In the house?"

He nods. "Thought I was dreamin'…"

"Well… in that case, I'm sorry I couldn't say it to your face. Although I was pretty much trying to just now…" She suddenly feels rather stupid, for believing that everything she rambled that night hadn't been heard, and for the fact that she nearly said it all over again. And then she remembers the final part - those last few heartfelt words that she muttered to him before she left - and wonders why, all of sudden, it'll only make things harder.

Involuntarily, her eyes widen as she realises. "Oh, no…"

_To be continued..._

_**A/N:** You'll be pleased to hear that part two is, in fact, already written, as is part three, nearly. It only gets fluffier, trust me. You can see that when I get me some reviews. :) I realise my version of Buffy is entirely too nice to Spike, but I figure he deserves it, and I felt like redeeming her._

As a little side-note, I thought people might be interested to know that Channel 4's "Top 100 Sexy Moments" had Buffy quite high in the polls, somewhere in the twenties or thirties, I think, with the scene from the end of "Smashed". Needless to say there was much whooping over here. If anyone's interested in the exact place it came, go to channel4 dot co dot uk slash sexy (so it doesn't strip the damn address) and the full list'll be on there somewhere.

Now review! 


	2. Part Two

**CHOSEN - COUNTERPOINT**

_**Summary:** Buffy tries explaining herself, and discovers, inevitably, that actions always speak louder than words...  
**Rating:** As promised, upping to PG-13 for implication. But as this is me, you can expect a decently obscure fade-to-black. :P  
**Disclaimer:** They belong to Joss, but I'm giving them what they deserve. Well, I'm giving Spike what he deserves... I'm giving Buffy more than she probably does.  
**Setting:** As before.  
**Author's Notes:** Let the fluff commence! This was the sequence I had planned for a while, although in my head it was very short, starting with her saying "I have a confession to make" and admitting that she heard him talking to her, and him admitting the same. But it wouldn't be Spuffy without extensive preamble, so here, I give you the outcome, finally. And maybe it was because I wrote it in a PMT (or PMS, if you're American) haze, but this will probably leave you with either warm fuzzies or angsty pangs, or both, if you're lucky. I spent most of the time writing it going "Ow...", but it's probably less effective on other people's brains. :) Anyway, enjoy the gratuitous shippiness. :)_

To answer a question that seemed to be bugging someone: 'the house' mentioned was the one from 'Touched', not Buffy's... Just to clear up any confusion there. And the 'background chatter' remains, I'm afraid. This one's about thoughts and feelings, not dialogue. Although I admit there is a little more in this one... I warn you, though, if you ignore the prose and go straight for the dialogue, you're missing some of the important stuff...

**Chosen - Counterpoint**

PART TWO

In any other situation, her reaction would be amusing; right now, it only makes his heart sink. She regrets what she said, and for all the times he thought he'd prepared for this, it hurts more than he ever imagined. Even if it was true - and he's always known it, even when she was denying it - then she doesn't want it to be. He knows the feeling well: loving someone you're not supposed to, but unable to stop it.

The doodle tacked to the punch-bag catches his eye; more than ever, he wants to rip his grand-Sire's head off. The mental image brings some respite from dealing with the Slayer, but only for a moment. She moves again: just a drop of her head, but it's enough to focus his attention back on her. She seems more embarrassed now than anything, but it doesn't make it feel any better.

"Right…" he says, almost apologetic. "Doesn't matter… Like I said, I thought I was dreaming…" He hopes, by explaining it away, giving her the chance to take it back, that they won't have to deal with it. The last time he tried to get to the bottom of things, it ended in tears, and he's not willing to put his emotions through the wringer a second time.

At his muttered comment, however, her head snaps up again. "It doesn't matter?" she asks, surprised. "How can you say that?"

There she goes again, giving him hope. One day, he's sure he'll stop rising to the bait. "I'm done pushing you, Buffy, you know that. Whatever it is you feel for me…" He can't finish the thought; he _can't_ tell her it doesn't matter, when it matters more than ever. Why is it so difficult to have this conversation with her, when they both know the truth?

"For God's sake, Spike," she says, raising her voice. "That's what I came down here to tell you." But her irritation is belied by the warm smile on her face, and in that moment, he knows exactly what she means.

"What?"

It's a stupid answer, but it's all he can manage when he realises what's going on, why she's here. She walks towards him; he's frozen to the spot, and can do nothing but watch her approach and wonder if he's still dreaming after all. It's all an illusion. She's the First, and he's nothing but a toy.

But surely the First would be more thorough than this… There should be more guises, more taunting, more of Dru's fake insanity and certainly more appearances of himself; there's been nothing since the vineyard. And yet he managed to sing to her only a few nights ago, and proved that the trigger no longer works, so it can only be real.

_This cannot be happening…_

He's well aware, by this point, that he must look ridiculous, but he can't wipe the shocked expression off his face, and she hasn't even said anything to justify it yet. He notices that she smirks, just slightly, but manages to cover it up. Even now, when they're on the brink of apocalypse, she can make him forget that they might not live to see another day; she can make the world beyond their dark basement vanish into dust.

He watches her grow closer for what seems like hours, her footsteps echoing exaggeratedly through the haze of his disbelief, but finally, she stops, and sits beside him. Part of him wants to run before he's hurt again, but a stronger, more determined part makes him stay, rooting him to the spot. She examines her fingernails, struggling to find the right words.

~*~

Deep down, she thinks there's no way this should be so difficult. Even with the web of complicated emotions between them, it shouldn't feel as impossible as it does. Sitting next to him has made it only marginally easier, and only because it drives her to carry on instead of run away. The thought of how much better everything could have been is what compels her to finish what she's started.

"I've been trying to work out why I keep coming back to you lately," she explains. "All I know is… I meant what I told you the other day. It _was_ because of you that I had the strength to go after Caleb, and I _was_ there with you that night…" She looks over to him, but can't see his expression; instead, she reaches over to extricate one of his hands from where they're clasped in his lap, and holds onto it. The action causes him to look at her, and the hope in his gaze is what forces her to continue. "I tried to justify why it was that you made me feel safer than I have in a long time, the other night… but there was no point. I just needed you close; more than that, I had to know you still felt something for me. You were the only thing in my life that hadn't changed or… or betrayed me, and nothing else mattered."

He stares at her, intently, and she knows what he's thinking before he says it. "What about last year?"

"Forget about last year," she says, and she's never meant it more. "The way I figure, there may not even be a future at this rate, so there's no point in dwelling on past mistakes. And we're rapidly running out of darkness, so stop interrupting me…" She smiles to prove she's joking. "Anyway… I… I don't regret what I said to you the other morning… and I don't regret what I feel." And yet, she's still not ready to say the words. I just know that I don't deserve you."

He does what can only be described as a double-take, blinking rapidly in surprise. "Run that by me again, love?"

Sometimes, he can be such an idiot. Surely he hasn't forgotten everything he's been through, everything he's done to try and win her affections? Perhaps it's a trait inherent in nineteenth century romantics, carried within him a hundred and fifty years down the line. She wonders why the thought has never occurred to her before now. "You've done so much for me, Spike," she explains, reminding him. "For me, for Dawn while I was gone, and for everyone, when it mattered. You got a _soul_ for me, even when you knew the price. You never stopped loving me, and I gave you every reason to hate me. All I ever did was beat you down and use you, but you're still around, and I've tried and tried to figure out why and all I can ever come up with is that you must be a glutton for punishment…"

"The sad thing is," he says, "you're probably right…" They share a laugh, and some of the weight lifts from the room, even though her task is far from over. He reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of her face, just like the other night, and that same feeling sweeps over her again; her heart skips more beats than can be healthy, and the too-brief contact is so full of longing that it brings fresh tears to her eyes. "I'm here because I have to be," he says, cryptically. "You can think what you like of me for sayin' it, but… being in love with you is the only reason I've ever needed to stick around."

~*~

It seems like she's run out of words, as she finally lets herself shed a tear. The walls have well and truly crumbled now, no doubt about it, but he's in no position to do anything. Before he even realises what he's doing, he's on his feet, and dragging her with him, and within seconds she's tight in his arms, clinging to him with equal strength. Suddenly, in that moment, the awkwardness and doubt lifts from the room, just as a blanket of contented silence falls to replace it.

He's spent the past two nights holding her, but not like this. For longer than he can remember, he's longed to hug her, to know what it was like; he's watched her give affection so easily to her friends and sister, even to her Watcher. He's not been allowed to ask: always about her, never about him, and no mention at all of a 'them'. He'd always supposed she'd feel so small - a hug from Giles would swamp her - but now he sees it's not the case, if her rib-breaking grasp is anything to go by.

She shudders, swallows a sob, trying to stop herself from breaking down. If she starts, she won't be able to stop; the crying can wait until it's over, but it's not an option right now. As much as he wants to let her, to tell her it's fine, that he's there, he can't. Not just for the sake of humanity, whose Fate rests in their hands, but for his own: if she starts, he will, too, and then they'll both be useless. So instead, he rubs her back, whispering, "Don't…" until her breathing settles again.

Resting his chin on the top of her head, he closes his eyes. If the end of the world is nigh, so be it. Let the Turok-Han come and rip them all to shreds, because it's the only way he's ever going to let her go again. He breathes in vanilla, and cinnamon (she's spoken to Willow today…), basement dust, and the tar-like smell of impending doom as the Hellmouth bubbles, the leather of her jacket, the residual freshness from her being outdoors, the mixture of various teenage perfumes lingering in the air, and all the combinations of crypt-like mustiness and ancient vamp-dust and dried blood that make up the Slayer, and it feels like home. It's a fog-thick night in London in 1882, and Elizabeth is a hundred times what Cecily ever was.

When she looks up, he kisses her forehead. She squeezes tighter, possessively; something that sounds suspiciously bone-like cracks, and he winces, pulling away slightly despite the temptation to ignore the pain. She realises and pulls back completely, her expression sincere and concerned.

"Oh, God, did I hurt you?" She's checking for broken bones already; this is familiar.

He stops her wandering hands again, though the intention is entirely different. "It's just the same old rib," he says. "It'll fix."

"I never thought I'd have to control the Slayer-strength with you…"

"You don't." He rests his arms lightly around her, craving contact, rubbing the small of her back as though accustomed to the gesture. "I wouldn't have it any other way. You can break as many ribs as you like." _Just say you won't let go_, he thinks, refraining from saying it aloud. _Promise you'll never let me go…_

"It's clearly a sign from God," she jokes. "Slayers obviously aren't allowed to hug people without breaking them."

"Pity, that," he says. "Seeing as they're so huggable…" She smiles, lopsidedly, and he knows she's thinking about something. His psychic abilities have yet to be honed, however, so all he can do is wait to find out what. She seems to be examining him, as if for the very first time, and he suddenly notices just how close they are - what would have been construed as dangerously so, at another time. Her scrutiny only serves to make him nervous.

Finally, she speaks, her eyes never leaving his. "I didn't get around to saying what I meant to…" And yet, still, the words won't form, and it's one struggle he can't help her with. Three words. Three simple words, that have the power to change everything, that he's been waiting for her to say for longer than he can even remember these days, and there's nothing he can do but wait.

_'She'll tell you. Someday she'll tell you…'_ Cassie's prediction resounds in his memory, and somehow, he knows that today isn't that 'someday'. He knows how she feels, like he has all along; this time, he's much more sure of it. She's proven that much already tonight, and told him in passing already, although they both know it doesn't really count.

She stares at him, implores him to understand. He does. "It's hard to say," he reassures her. "Believe me. I know."

"So why do you have no trouble?" Her tone is tinged slightly with an air that implies the unfairness of it, and he smiles.

"I've had a bit more practice. I like sayin' it…" He strokes her cheek, no longer anticipating any reprimand for it. "And with you… with you, it's the only thing I can say that makes any sense. I know I talk too much sometimes, ramble… but most of the words don't mean a thing. There's only three that count for anything, Buffy: I love you, no matter how wrong it is."

It hasn't helped in the slightest, but he suspected as much. She looks thoughtful again, but only for a second; in the next moment, his own thoughts rapidly dissolve into incoherence.

~*~

She wants to say, _'You're not helping'_, but she doesn't. Instead, her brain turns to mush, and nothing will form at all in the way of intelligent conversation. There's one thing left to do, the only thing right now that's even a possibility. She leans forwards; halfway there, she realises she should have done this right at the start and saved all the time she wasted on explaining things.

When her lips meet his, the three-word phrase explodes in her mind, bouncing around as though there's nothing else in the world of any meaning. He's surprised by the contact - as was partially her intention - but kisses her back, tenderly, cautiously, terrified, carefully holding her just close enough, and last year was never like this, like she's drowning or falling into a black hole, like her heart will explode from needing to love him so much…

He lets her up for breath, instinctively knowing, even after all this time, when her lungs are starting to burn. She leans her forehead against his for a moment, steadying her heart rate to a level where it won't burst out of her chest, and then, when she's certain she can talk, she lifts her head to face him, finally ready to finish what she came here for.

His eyes are still closed. She reaches to touch his face, and he opens them, but still doesn't speak. Eventually, the only thing she can come out with herself is a breathless "Wow…"

He grins. "You're telling me?" She smiles, glad, at least, that she's not the only one affected. He lifts her chin with one hand - "I've missed you. Missed this…" - and then leans in for another kiss. Before she succumbs, she clamours for lucidity, and pulls back out of the way, completely out of his grasp.

"No…" Confusion and panic flash in his eyes when she stops him, and hurt, and she quickly rectifies the situation, reaching for his hands. "I mean… not yet. Not until I've done what I came here for…"

"It doesn't matter…"

Those words again. "Yes, it does. We both know it does, Spike. I need you to know. There is no way I'm going into battle tomorrow with this still on my conscience."

She takes a deep breath, ready, finally, to say the words, but before she can even get the first one out, he stops her. "Buffy… don't."

~*~

She's confused, and worried, and he wishes for once that he could just give them both a chance… but logic surfaces from the quagmire of his emotions, and predominates. After that kiss, he's in no more doubt about how she feels - and if that's all Cassie meant, then it's more than enough - but no matter how much they try to deny it, there's a war to be fought, and it isn't the time.

"I'm not going to pretend that I don't want to hear it, because we both know I'd be lying. But like you said, neither of us might come out of this bloody war alive tomorrow… and I don't want to lose you, knowing for sure what I could have had. More than that, I don't want you to regret never telling me sooner, if it's me that doesn't make it."

"And regretting never telling you at all is better?" she asks. "Did I miss something?"

"It's not like I've never known," he clarifies. She nods, seeming to understand what he's saying. "If you wait, just until it's all over… then we'll both have tomorrow to live for instead of yesterday…"

"You're right…" she says, and then re-iterates, with a smile: "I hate that…"

"But you'll wait?"

"I'll wait. And when I tell you, it won't be in here…"

He smiles his gratitude, and then rolls his eyes at himself. "I must be insane…"

"It wouldn't be the first time. And hey, still in a basement," she says, ironically, gesturing around them. "Although I admit it's a slightly cosier one…"

"Oh, definitely…" Then he remembers what he was going to do before his temporary insanity set in, and closes the gap that's formed between them, kissing her just like before. Everything in the universe except them seems to stop, and if only that were true, if only it were possible to make time stand still so tomorrow doesn't happen. Somehow, through the haze of quickly diminishing logic, he's aware of being dragged, pulled, directed towards the wall, of leaning further down to accommodate wherever it is she's taking him, of bumping into something that feels suspiciously like-

Breaking the contact, he has to check, and discovers that he's not dreaming. She's sitting on the cot, and it suddenly seems like both a nightmare and the biggest miracle in the universe, and he's not even sure what to say.

"Buffy?" She looks up at him, expectant, and fully anticipating the question. "Are… are you sure?"

She shushes him with a finger to his lips. "Only if you can believe you won't get hurt…"

The irony isn't lost, and it's pointless to even question her. There's no time to ask if it's a statement of forgiveness; she's already been through her repentance: they both have, many times over. All he can do is nod, for both of them. With a smile, she pulls him down into another sense-numbing kiss, and beyond that, most other thoughts vanish into the night. She can wait another day to say she loves him; he can wait another lifetime to hear it; but neither of them can wait for this a second longer…

_To be continued..._

_**A/N:** Same rules apply: more reviews gets you the final chapter, which is set during and after the final battle and will be angsty as Hell, so be warned. (I'm currently finishing the final section, and it makes my heart hurt...) I'm also still battling the overwhelming urge to turn my silly, clichéd idea for a sequel into an actual fic; if you see something turn up with my name on it that claims to be a continuation, please smack me..._


	3. Part Three

**CHOSEN - COUNTERPOINT**

_**Summary:** The final chapter, of everything...  
**Rating:** I'll leave it as PG-13. The key word for this is Angst. You have been warned...  
**Disclaimer:** Final dialogue belongs to Joss, and I'm very grateful because it gives me something to work with. Inner ramblings are mine; anything familiar is not.  
**Setting:** The morning after the night before, and the final battle, and the aftermath. And there will not be a sequel. No.  
**Author's Notes:** Before I start: for Kristen - sorry for the confusion: the conversation they're referring to is in the fic that comes before this one, another Counterpoint for "Touched" - you should probably go read that one, too. Not that I'm plugging... ;)_

Anyway, here we go. The final moments. This makes me sniffle, purely because writing it entailed having to really think about Buffy, Spike, and what they both had to sacrifice, and... just, ow. Ow, ow, ow. So if you end up in tears, don't blame me, blame Joss. He's the one who made us watch Spike burn from the inside out. :P But yeah. It's been a while since I've been given something really angsty to get my teeth into, and now I remember why I love writing it so much. :D I didn't gain the title of Angst Queen for nothing, you know...  


**Chosen - Counterpoint**

PART THREE

_"Can I say it now? I'm going to anyway. You wouldn't let me tell you. We're standing on the edge of the world, and you thought I'd never admit it… but I do. I really do, Spike. I love you…"_

In her dreams, she told him. They were in a place full of light, far from the basement, further still from the Hellmouth, but where, exactly, she didn't know. He listened; he smiled; he knew it was the truth. He was silent, and, possibly, he faded away, along with everything else. The rest she doesn't remember; it's all a rapidly fading blur as reality sets in. Sunlight seeps through the small window, high on the wall, but it isn't a danger here. The dawn chorus starts its morning song, oblivious to the day's impending doom. The rest of the house is still silent, Potentials, Scoobies, and comrades in battle all catching a few more hours of sleep before it's time for action.

Most of their conversation the previous night is a fog, now, but she remembers doing a lot of the talking. _And a lot of the kissing,_ she thinks, _and… Yup. Full circle…_ She resists the urge to start giggling - it wouldn't be particularly appropriate - and settles on a slight grin instead as everything else comes back. It drops again, with the memories. For some reason, the first thing she remembers is the sharing of scars, from the first of hers to the last of his; more than half were inflicted by each other the year before, and the majority of his were gained along with the soul, or after it, because of it. That one gash over his heart still haunts her, along with the symbolic marks of the First that only serve to remind her how she was almost too late; he was more concerned about the almost-healed scratch on her upper arm, because he didn't remember being the cause of it, despite the guilt eating away at him…

He's asleep; at least, she thinks he is. It's so hard to tell. She doesn't risk trying to speak, not this time. There's still only one thing she wants to say, but she's promised to wait. Wrapped in his arms, the same as always - and when did only three times (if she's only including those that _really_ meant something) count as 'always'? - she wonders what it'll really be like, when she tells him. She practices it in her head: where to put the vocal inflection; how to make it sound like she means it ten times more than the words can justify, just the way he does; whether or not to use his given name. Her mind wanders to locations: this house, when everybody else is out; a cemetery in the middle of the night, whispered through a cloud of vamp dust; the Bronze, over drinks, watching her friends dance because he refuses to join in; right after the battle, standing victorious over the Hellmouth as it's devoured in its own flames. She'll bare her soul like she's bared her flesh so many times before, and saving the world a lot won't even compare…

"Penny for your thoughts, love…"

Well, that answers _that_ question. She doesn't move just yet, in case it disturbs the harmony. "Nothing important," she fibs. "Just… last minute battle-plans. Stuff like that."

"It can't be morning already…" The groan is implied.

This time she shifts her head, so she can face him. The scars remain, just within view. "It's still early yet," she says, reassuringly. "Plenty of time before we have to get up." Above their heads, muffled, a crash. She rolls her eyes.

"Or not," he says, looking towards the ceiling.

"Ah, what the Hell. Let 'em rip the house apart, if they want. I'm pretty sure I can claim it all back on the insurance anyway."

"They cover damage-by-teenager, now?"

"You'd be surprised…" She feels a lot better about their impending war this morning - more positive, more determined to win, even though the odds are exactly the same. Her conscience is finally - almost - clear, and her mind is free to focus on the fight. She has something other than the rest of the world to fight for: herself. Him. Them.

But she knows she'll have to focus much more than this, when the time comes, and the seriousness of the situation hasn't escaped her. For now, though…

She makes herself more comfortable, snuggling closer, and revels in the relative silence for a while. Then, she asks, "Are you okay?"

He smiles; it seems a suddenly very pointless question. "What do you think?"

"Okay, dumb question… Gimme a break; I just woke up…" That's a lie, but it's a good enough excuse. She rephrases her question. "It's just… you're quiet. For you, I mean."

"Just a bit… shell-shocked." He continues, explaining as best he can. "I mean… last night was… Well, it _was_. It happened. I didn't really believe it at the time, and I don't quite believe it now… but you're here. An' I'm just… basking."

It's a bad choice of verb, 'basking', considering what happened at the vineyard, especially now she knows he saw her… but she's not going to go there. It's no time to start complicating things, confusing herself, hurting him in the process. "Oh…"

"And just so you know…" he adds, after a pause, "I'm still terrified…"

She understands now. The first time he told her, she wasn't really sure what he meant; now, in the light of everything, it's all so obvious. He's terrified of it all: of how he feels, and why; of standing on the brink of something that might be, unsure if it's true; of the closeness he's never had; more than anything else, of losing her.

"That makes two of us," she tells him. He kisses her, sending a tingle down her spine; combined with the early-morning chill of the room, her flesh breaks out in goose-bumps, so he pulls the blanket higher. She feels cocooned and safe, and entirely unwilling to relinquish herself to the world.

Another crash sounds from upstairs, and footsteps, raised voices. Giles' muffled voice as he tries to restore some order. Anya yelling at Andrew, the only recognisable word being 'geek!' - then again, she could be referring to Xander. The household is well and truly up, just like any ordinary day, the apocalypse cloaked by the usual banter and arguments; even through the layers of floor, Dawn is heard to scream about someone stealing her hairdryer.

They both groan. "There goes the peace and quiet," he says. "You'd better get up, love. Start de-briefing and such."

"Do I have to?"

"Don't make me steal the blanket."

"Evil vampire. I always knew you were faking the whole 'being good' thing."

She sits up, with the blanket, and extends a foot to search for clothing. With most of it in easy reach, they both dress quickly enough, but with it, the atmosphere gets heavier. They sit on the edge of the rumpled cot, his arm resting lightly behind her, almost touching, and she wishes he'd kiss the back of her neck, drag her back to insanity. Instead, they both stare at the door at the top of the steps.

She stands with a defeated sigh, reaching, finally, for her jacket, and starts to leave. Then, she stops, and turns. "You're not coming?"

He gets to his feet, awkward. "Think it's best if I didn't. I'll mosey up later when nobody's paying attention…"

She's not letting him get away with that. Walking back over to him, she takes his hands in hers. "I'm not ashamed of what happened last night, Spike, and I'm not afraid of what they think." That being said, she heads off a second time, pulling him behind her.

He resists. "They'll ask questions."

She stops again. "So let 'em ask. There's more important things for them to worry about than my business." Echoing a gesture from two nights ago, she raises a hand to touch his face; with her brain rapidly descending into battle-mode, the words she needs are slow to form. "I don't regret this, and if they can't handle it… that's their problem."

He doesn't reply, because there aren't enough words. Instead, he strokes her hair, rearranges it carefully around her face until it's exactly how he likes it, and studies her. She lets him memorise her, silent, until he leans in for another kiss; it feels final in its tenderness, but she's not sure whose fault that is. He still believes it's over before it's even begun, and she fears he may be right. They break apart and she sighs, defeated. "Let's go…"

She extends a hand, with a nod, he takes it and follows her up the stairs. As each step brings them closer to reality, however, their hands drift apart, and as the door opens into the teen-filled, noisy kitchen, the spell breaks. They're Slayer and Champion, once more, the general and her second-in-command, and nobody suspects a thing, so wrapped up in their own personal worries. The only one who notices is Dawn, munching on cereal, who gives her sister an eyebrow-raised questioning look. One nod later, and it's confirmed. Her sister smiles, happy for her, happier for him.

He's already long gone, and hasn't seen his forgiveness in Dawn's eyes. Now it's back to the war.

~*~

How can it be that only a few short hours ago, he was down in her basement with her, contented and loved, waiting for the dream to end? How can it be that they never, ever anticipated it would be this difficult? And how can it be that now, even when concentration is of the element, he can't take his eyes off her?

He fights off Turok-Han left, right and centre, but all the while, he watches her - watches all of them. Only days ago these fighters were frightened, clumsy girls; now, they're Slayers. Not a patch on _his_ Slayer, nor on Faith; those two work together like a machine, despite their past; they're synchronised, fighting in a perfectly choreographed dance. It's fascinating to watch.

And then, Faith's out of sight, buried under a pile of über-vamps, and his girl's on her own, spinning, kicking, staking and beheading and slicing with the scythe, as the dust flies. A flash of dark hair as Faith resurfaces, strewing Turok-Han in her wake; Kennedy letting out a war-cry and a flying kick; even the once-terrified Vi wielding a sword like she was born with it. Above, in the body of the school, he imagines his Nibblet wreaking havoc on the Bringers, Anya and Andrew bickering while they battle, Giles hacking the head off a Bringer and then pausing to clean his glasses. A little bit of the power Willow released has infected him, too, the energies of the Slayers overwhelming his senses, and part of him wishes he could have been there to see it happen. If he could have anticipated this, years ago, he'd probably claim he was on the wrong side… but God, he wouldn't miss this for the world.

The noise is deafening, too loud to think. No room for planning ahead, only time for instinct. There's growling, shouting of orders from both senior Slayers, the cracking and thumping of well-aimed blows, the swish of metal sliding through dead flesh and bone, and everywhere there's bodies and blood and dust in the air. Two übies leap on his back and when he's fought them off, she's nowhere to be found.

For a moment, he searches through the sea of fighting, but she's gone. His worst fear possibly realised, he throws himself further into the fight, finishing it, for her…

And then, pain. Not like the chip, not like Glory, not like falling from the tower, not like allowing himself to be beaten down behind the police station, not like the burns from the cross, not like the trials, not like the soul… Wait. No. _Just_ like the soul; burning, searing, bubbling inside him and eating from the inside out, and he remembers now why he tried to cut it out. _Not now! Oh, God, not now!_

Through the pain, he carries on fighting, determined to see it through. Then, he sees her; she's injured and bloodied, an ominous-looking wound in her side that makes her remind him of an effigy of Christ, but she's alive, and she's pissed off. Rona throws her the scythe; all around, the Slayers are falling, but the strongest remain. Six of the Turok-Han fall into the abyss in one fell swoop, and crumble to dust. They're going to win.

He basks.

"Oh, bollocks…"

The Seal opens with a rumble, and the next thing he knows there's powerful, pure energy, channelled through the amulet and bursting through the roof of the cave, and then there's sunlight, going in the opposite direction, and this cannot be good…

"Buffy!"

The enemy retreat when their comrades are destroyed, and the cavern starts to fall apart as the light, filtered through the trinket, does its thing, incinerating the Turok-Han in seconds. So this is his purpose, then. _All worthy, and full of light…_

She runs to him, calling his name, dodging falling boulders as Faith gets everybody out. The very bowels of Hell are gurgling, and it's all the girls can do to run, but eventually, they're gone, and she's the only one left. She shouldn't be here; he should scream at her to leave. _Just a few more seconds with her. There's plenty of time…_

She doesn't know what to say, amazed by what she can see; from his perspective, there's only the stream of sunlight blasting into the cave, and her: grubby, dusty, bleeding, and more beautiful than ever before. He remembers why he's here, what's inside him causing this, and he'd go through it all again a hundred times over if he had to, if she asked.

"I can feel it, Buffy…"

"What?" Her voice trembles, and she doesn't try to hide it. She'll be with him right 'til the end.

"My soul… It's really there…" He gazes at her, as if she's the cause of it. In a way, she is. Standing here, pinned to a wall, burning up, beside her, he finally believes it exists. He should be afraid of what's to come, but instead he feels liberated, ridiculously pleased by this new revelation. The sunlight starts to take its toll; no protective blanket to shield him from the rays, not this time. "Kinda stings."

Pretty soon there'll be no cave left for her to stand on, and yet she doesn't run. She can see the danger probably better than he can and still refuses to move; he has to get her out. "Go on, then!" he commands.

She shakes her head, determined, frantic. "You've done enough," she tells him. "You can still-"

"No." _Oh, God, it burns… I can't let her watch this._ "You beat 'em back. It's for me to do the cleanup."

Faith's head appears at the entrance to the cave, a redeemed darkness in the place of light. "Buffy, come on!" She ducks debris, vanishes, leaving them alone once more, presumably thinking her fellow Slayer will follow. He knows it's now or never; if he doesn't get her out, she'll die here with him, and he's never been a fan of _Romeo and Juliet_-type endings.

"Gotta move, lamb," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without a second thought. He's always wanted to use it, been too afraid to let it slip. "I think it's fair to say school's out for bloody summer!"

The school falls in; desks and whiteboards and tiles sail past them, into the pit where the Turok-Han meet their demise. As the principal's furniture joins the debris, he heaves a sigh of relief that Willow got out safely, that Dawn and Anya and even the Whelp weren't down here to see this. Have they all survived? He'll never know; it's far too late to back out now, and he doesn't think he has the strength to lift the amulet any more.

"Spike, please…" she begs, just short of dragging him out herself.

"I mean it. I gotta do this." He holds his hands up, forcing her back, the gesture emulating a farewell more than he'd like, and he fears he won't even get to say goodbye. He has regrets: not knowing if Dawn ever forgave him - and if not, this would be a fitting end in her eyes - and never telling her how much she meant to him, not telling Buffy that he understood about her and Angel, that he didn't really care about what happened at the vineyard; he never paid respects to her mother; he didn't explain about the demon eggs; he couldn't repent for the bathroom, because there weren't enough apologies.

And even now, he knows he won't get to tell her he loves her again, he won't get to hold her again, or see her in sunlight, and even though he managed the goodbye kiss before they left the basement, he'd burn a hundred times over for just one more.

Her hand links with his, and he's not sure if it's real; why is she still here? He looks to her; she's real, she's here, she's communicating everything she's never said through simple touch. Their hands burst into flame, but she doesn't let go. She breathes heavily, forcing herself not to cry, and then… she smiles. Her eyes light up with realisation and determination.

_'She'll tell you. Someday she'll tell you…'_

"I love you."

She broke her promise; she didn't wait. But it's been said, now, and there's no taking it back. There's no time to enjoy it, no time to say all the things he wants, and even though he's known it all along, he can only stare at her numbly. It sounds better than goodbye. And he still has to get her out of here.

"No, you don't," he says, hating that it has to be this way. "But thanks for sayin' it…" If he can make her believe that, if he can convince her that he doesn't believe _her_, then it'll all be worth it. Her expression crumples, involuntarily; she believes him, at least for the moment; she'll think about it later and understand, of that he's certain. Hurting her is more painful than the sunlight ever could be, but there's no other way.

Another almighty rumble shakes their hands apart, and his continues to burn, alone. "It's your world up there," he says, and it is. She wasn't meant for the dark. "Now _go_!"

One look, and she's gone, just as the exit caves in and traps him there. It's done. "I wanna see how it ends."

Cackling maniacally, he sees; he feels; he burns.

~*~

_…right after the battle, standing victorious over the Hellmouth as it's devoured in its own flames…_

Well. She was close. Not quite as victorious as she'd imagined it to be, not the romantic, heart-rending scene she wished for. But she told him, and that's what counts.

For the briefest of moments, down in the cave with him, she almost believed what he said. She almost thought he didn't trust her words, that after all this time, after last night, he couldn't accept what she was telling him. Now, in the aftermath, as the remains of her army decamp from the bus, stand at the edge of the smoking pit that was Sunnydale, she understands that he was only trying to keep her alive.

_You idiot, Spike. You complete, utter, heroic, wonderful idiot…_

Dawn embraces her, flooded with relief that she got out. The realness of her sister only makes the loss more poignant, because she should be embracing _him_, too, and they should all be together, one big, happy, homeless family. And that's another thing. For the moment, they have nowhere to go.

All around her, her friends check for damage. Xander questions Andrew, asks if he saw - because someone else needs to see things now - and even if Andrew saw nothing, he reassures him anyway. Anya died a hero, too. At least they both have people who'll mourn them, bury them in spirit if not in body - and yes, she'll bury him, even if she's the only one who does. Somewhere in a forgotten graveyard in London lies William's neglected headstone, and somewhere, wherever they end up, will lie another, tended and loved and kept pretty with flowers. Except she doesn't know what his favourite flowers were, so she'll put her mom's instead, because he'd appreciate that. Just for irony's sake, she can even picture the epitaph: _'Spike. He saved the world. Alone.'_

As Xander places a reassuring, sorrowful hand on Andrew's shoulder, she realises that they might have been friends, in an alternative life. Xander and Andrew and Willow, two big geeks and a brainiac, if she hadn't come along; there'd have been no Troika, no Scoobies… and they'd probably be dead now, too, and so would she. Maybe things do happen for a reason.

The crater smokes from a fire deep in its belly, and the dust settles on a demolished city. _I can see my house from here_, she half-jokes to herself. It still hasn't quite hit her: they have nothing left, unless there's anything redeemable down in the rubble, and it's too dangerous to head down there yet. They'll all be living in a school bus indefinitely.

Giles joins her side, staring into the crater, doubtless thinking the same thing, or forming some kind of preliminary plan. "I don't understand," he says. "What did this?"

"Spike." There's no bitterness in her tone, no 'I-told-you-so', only sorrow. And pride. He did this. Her Champion. Somewhere, buried deep under the rubble, he's down there. _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…_ She wants Dawn to have heard her, wants her to know. She wants to turn around and scream to all of them, _"You hear that? Spike did this! He saved us all!"_ to see their reactions, but it's too much to deal with. So instead, she stares into the smoke.

The Welcome-to-Sunnydale sign teeters on its post, and falls backwards into the crater. Simultaneously, she wants to laugh hysterically and cry her eyes out. That was his trademark, mangling the sign on his arrival in town; now he's left for good, it's cruelly ironic, and also oddly fitting. She becomes aware of a stinging sensation, now her adrenaline rush is wearing off, and examines her knuckles: the skin is blistered, and red, from the fire that consumed them both only a few short minutes ago. It'll heal in a day or so, but the scars will remain, along with the others. _'My skin should crack and peel'_, indeed. He gave the fire back, and then he let it consume him.

Her friends chatter in the forced, relieved way people do after Hellish experiences, but she's only half-listening. She studies them, her strange, acquired family: Xander, tragic hero with his eye-patch, mourning his lost love; Willow, leaning weakly on Kennedy (a poor substitute for Tara, but nobody's going to say so if she's happy) but more powerful than ever before; Giles, looking so _old_ all of a sudden; Dawn, so mature, all grown up; Faith, fighting the good fight and glad of it, at last; Andrew… being Andrew, only better, changed.

And Anya and Spike, deep, deep down in the High School, sliced, diced, and desiccated. It's all over, now.

Drifting back to the conversation, she catches the final round of questions.

"What do you think we should do, Buffy?" It's Willow, still looking up to her best friend for all the answers she doesn't know.

Faith chips in. "Yeah, you're not the one and only Chosen any more. Just gotta live like a person. How's that feel?" She looks to her fellow Slayer, and silently directs the same question back at her: it applies to them both.

"Buffy?" asks Dawn. "What _are_ we going to do?"

And still, she can't answer. Looking back to the crater, waves of nostalgia creep over her: the olden days in the High School, huddled around Giles' beautiful old books in the library; sending Angel to Hell; getting him back; the Prom; graduation; meeting Riley; being temporarily engaged to Spike; losing her mother; dying; being reborn; hating her friends, herself, her lover; finally, needing him, loving him, losing him… And beyond the plume of acrid smoke, there's only sky and desert and a long, long road to somewhere else, a future filled with brand new Slayers, and for her, complete, utter normality, at last…

She smiles.

_We're gonna be cookie dough…_

F-I-N

_**A/N:** And there we have it. I didn't like the end of the novelisation (well, I didn't like most of it, to be honest…) with the 'cookie dough' line as the closing words, because on its own like that, to me, it implied a decidedly B/A-esque future. As did "End of Days" and the close of her conversation with Angel; I know Joss was trying to keep everyone happy, but… I didn't like it. Mind you, I'm as anti-B/A as they come, so sue me… Anyway. I wanted 'cookie dough' in this, and I think I managed to twist it nicely._

I'm still fighting off the sequel idea, but will doubtless fail horribly. Maybe when I finally get the internet back I'll be so consumed in the Crossover that I'll forget about it, but it's incredibly unlikely…

Aaaanyway, that's it. There'll probably be no "End of Days" counterpoint because there's so little of it to work with, but if you would be so kind as to offer your comments and lovely reviews, that'd be nice. Thank you, and goodnight. :) 


End file.
